


Frame of Reference

by fireun



Category: Weiss Kreuz
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-14
Updated: 2010-06-14
Packaged: 2017-10-10 02:55:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/94700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireun/pseuds/fireun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Schuldig had turned churlish into an art form, perfecting the curling frown and the disdainful slanting gaze. But, when it came to this thing, this person, Crawford had developed a patience that defied logic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frame of Reference

Nightmares would have been easier to deal with. A quick shake, a splash of water, we such simple solutions. Wake the dreamer and grumble before heading back to bed.

Crawford walked into the room, coffee mug in hand, face set in a study of impartiality. Schuldig sat, staring out the window, fixated on something that seemed just out of reach. Not even a twitch at the smell of strong brew that drifted into the room in Crawford's wake. Not a shift to suggest he was aware of the other man's presence.

For someone usually so aware of everything around him, every foot placed and intent imagined, it was the most obvious indication of a recurring problem. Crawford approached, setting the mug carefully on the cluttered nightstand, and dared what few survived, brushing fingers across a pale cheek. Schuldig did so hate to be touched.

A whirlwind of ire overwhelmed the room, phantasmal fingers scrabbling at Crawford's brain with the intent to maim, to destroy and erase. Nausea curdled the contents of Crawford's stomach, but he simply leaned closer, touching his forehead to Schuldig's, and like any storm of such ferocity, it was over quickly.  
Schuldig blinked, dragging lids down across eyes that had gone gummy and dry, face drawing up in an expression that was part confusion, part pain. "Crawford."

"Schuldig."

It was such a simple ritual, but for Schuldig it was imperative. Voices forming names each syllable establishing identity as Schuldig wandered back from wherever he had gone.

Crawford's quiet impassiveness, his solid presence, gave Schuldig time to settle and reorient.

"Where were you?"

Schuldig always hated that question, responded with raising his upper lip into a particularly nasty sneer. "Where were you?"

Crawford gestured at the nightstand. "We were out of coffee."

Schuldig had turned churlish into an art form, perfecting the curling frown and the disdainful slanting gaze. But, when it came to this thing, this person, Crawford had developed a patience that defied logic. Even as Schuldig postured his perfected petulance, his mind crept in close for the comfort his pride would never let him seek in any other way. With any other person.

Crawford didn't gloat, didn't even twist the corners of his mouth up in that arrogant smirk he could deploy like a weapon. He merely reached to the nightstand to retrieve the coffee, and handed the mug to Schuldig, who did his best to look put upon but accepted it anyway. All the while Schuldig's telepathy curled up in Crawford's presence like a child in a beloved blanket.

They were disparate demons, forces to be reckoned with with differing ideas and plans. But in the end, when Schuldig felt he had made his point and his independence by putting it off for as long as possible, when he leaned forward with hair sweeping down and hiding his expression while hands reached out, Crawford leaned as well and they met in the middle. Schuldig's hands tangled in and wrinkled Crawford's shirt, Schuldig's mouth worked at the sensitive skin of Crawford's neck.

Schuldig's mouth tasted of coffee and old cigarettes, invading the mint-edged freshness of Crawford's mouth. Schuldig's mind was rough with years of being used as a weapon, bits of personality fluttered around with the possibility and probability that tangled in Crawford's skull, seeking and settling on the here and now. On the who. Crawford was the controlling element, the balance to Schuldig's often accidental chaos.

Schuldig knew who he was fucking, knew every touch that would make Crawford gasp and groan. Knew every intimate inch of Crawford's pleasure centers. Tangled in every thread of Crawford's appreciation of the fey features and wicked smile that was Schuldig, Schuldig smiled. They were a fascinating gestalt, a horrifying whole.

And as Crawford hissed out Schuldig's name, body tensing in anticipation of his release, Schuldig groaned, chased away all the ghosts of minds touched and torched, and basked in Crawford's pleasure before being all but overwhelmed by his own.

The afterglow was short lived, as they sorted themselves out, and out of each other. Schuldig, newly and neatly centered and settled, drew back into his usual personal bubble, brushing tangled hair back. Fastidious as a cat he uncurled from his position against the windowsill where he had braced himself sometime before and stalked off to the bathroom to clean.

Crawford considered the coffee mug, where it had been knocked to the floor, and stretched, ignoring the way his back had started to creak and stiffen over the past few months. They were getting to be old devils. His body was slowing down far faster than his mind. And Schuldig…

He would be the center of Schuldig's sanity for as long as he was able, until Schuldig wandered off too far, got too lost for Crawford to call him back.

Crawford pulled his pants back on, settling the small pistol back into its holster. It wasn't sentimentality, it was business- it was a deal they had made long ago. And if the deal had moved into dangerous territory that prompted emotion and even affection, neither of them audibly owned up to it. Crawford sneered at the idea, even as he moved to make sure Schuldig was still there, somewhere in the middle of the steam cloud that had overtaken the bathroom.


End file.
